TV Kiddie Hour
by punch-n-pie
Summary: Christophe thinks his messed up life is all over once he dies and goes to Hell. However his  after life becomes far more interesting and far more messed up! Ah well, as long as he has smokes, it's all good. Rated M for language and likely gore/slash.
1. Little boy you're going to Hell

Little boy, you're going to Hell!

It was all fucked up. I could barely fucking see by that point, but my sense of touch seemed to heighten crazily. I could clearly pick up the rough texture of dirt and gravel on my skin, the rattle of my lungs feebly inhaling on the fizzled cigarette between my dry lips, the blood coursing freely from my many wounds. I was vaguely aware of myself rambling inanely at nothing, but about _something_, though my ability to hear fluctuated so greatly I couldn't make sense of it.  
>"And alzhough I die…"<br>The Jew kid was holding me tightly, desperately. I could only tell it was him because the flashes of bright red emerging from his green hat amused me greatly. Pretty colours. He was telling me not to die. That everything was going to be alright. _Liar_.  
>"Zhough I die… La Reseestance… Lives o- <em>unghh<em>…"

And that was it. It all went black, and the agony was finally over. I had passed away, and the last remnants of warmth from the Jew kid's trembling arms had been snatched away. That fat shit killed me. Could he not follow a simple fucking instruction? The last thing I heard after the echoing of a few kids' voices was one exclamation of "Shit!" from who I assumed was the Jew kid—a sentiment I whole-heartedly reciprocated in my dying state—and with that the curtain was drawn on my short 10-year-old life. And then there was nothing. I still seemed to float in darkness- an endless, velvet darkness. I didn't appear to have a body; either that or it was too fucking dark to see it. Fucking ambiguity. But really, being dead and hovering around in that space wasn't _so_ bad. No more war, no more dangerous missions, no more fucking guard-dogs. I mentally—or maybe physically, I couldn't tell—screamed "SHEEEEEEEEEET!" into the black abyss. Oui. No mother to ground me for being a "potty-mouth" in death. Silly bitch. It shouldn't take being mauled then dying dramatically to feel that sort of relief, but there you go. Now, if only I could've got my hands on some fucking smokes, death would've been just _peachy_.

Then I saw something for the first time since kicking the bucket, so to speak. A small, golden light above me. I'm not usually the type to make an effort for anything that doesn't get me cash or cigarettes, but it looked so… _beautiful_, to put it in faggy terms, that I involuntarily reached out my spiritual arms and attempted to claw and drag my way through the dense blackness towards it. After the first bout of effort I already felt like giving up and cursed aplenty. I realised I could actually feel my mouth moving now, and hear my colourful words quite obviously. Then, as if some asshole had taken pleasure in my anger then switched to pity, I suddenly felt my ghostly yet sort of material self levitate towards the light. Stars lit up as I drew closer to the light, which I realised composed of ivory clouds and wisps of air surrounding glimmering gates. What was this place beyond the stars, you ask? Fucking _heaven_, dipshit. I couldn't help rolling my eyes. Seriously, heaven is the _exact same_ queer-as image that is described to us in kiddie school. I was very close to reaching the cloudy floor of the place, and just when I couldn't imagine the scene becoming any more queer a load of half-naked angels swooped out from beyond the gates, welcoming me towards the holy realm.  
>"Fair eenough," I muse out loud, "alzhough God mustn't be picky eef <em>I'm<em> allowed in zis fucking marshmallow-land."  
>Shit. I spoke to soon. The angels all gasped and shook their heads at me, then one of the big-titted ones <em>shooed<em> me off the cloudy plinth like some sort of pest. The other angels jeered and one of the fags flipped me off as I fell back into the abyss. In the midst of my confusion a voice boomed at me. And I knew _exactly_ who the fucker was: "Little boy you're going to Helllllll!"  
>And as I fell further from the bright light and made a beeline for a flaming vortex circling furiously in the blackest depths of space, all I could do was scream: "Sheeeeet! Fuck you, God! You cock-suckeeng asshoooooooole!"<p>

From that moment on is my life became _way _more fucked-up. Yeah, even more fucked-up than being in some botched mission to save two Canadians from a load of angry American mothers.

I woke up God-knows-when to what must be Hell—rightly assumed due to the fact our stereotypical assumptions of the afterlife had thus far been correct. Let me paint a picture. Fiery lakes and jagged rocks which jutted from the ground and unfathomably high ceiling above composed most of the… um, terrain. Random demonic creatures were on the loose, frolicking peacefully among the rocks and grazing peacefully on… uhh…corpses… of other demons and people. Yeah that's the nicest picture of Hell you're gonna get. But in all honesty, it didn't seem _as_ awful and torment-filled as people would have us believe. Sure, as I explored a little I realised everything and everyone down there was fighting, feasting on or fucking each other, but it all just came back to life. Cause I mean, they're already dead, right? It seemed as if all that was to kill time for the legions of super-scary Hell-beings. And yeah, it _was_ uncomfortably hot and smoky down there, as you'd expect, but my lungs were already pretty used to it by that point. In other areas Hell really seemed like my sort of place. People everywhere were drawing whatever the fuck they wanted on cavernous walls and saying whatever the fuck they wanted in public, smoking and drinking as they pleased. Yeah, not so bad. After wandering aimlessly for a few hours—it was hard to gauge time there as there's no sky—I belatedly realised I had a fully physical form once more. No longer was it slightly transparent and ethereal. _Fuck_. It was actually very comforting to see my partially gloved, calloused hands flexing before me and feel my trusty shovel and rope about my back. Still, there was a massive void caused by the lack of cigarettes. Hmm… perhaps that's the torture and torment part of Hell—having your favourite thing withheld. If that was the case I'd probably have to kill myself. Like _double_ kill myself—kill myself so much I'd skip the Hell part and be thoroughly, unarguably, _unraisably_ dead.

For several more hours, or however long, I sat on a cliff overlooking one of many lava-streams and rocky plains beyond it. Scattered around there were a few withered, gnarled semblances of trees which were _basically_ charcoal. I guess they held a morbid beauty, because I found my eyes tracing their twisted patterns as I chewed absently on my thumb nail—no doubt trying to fill the cigarette-shaped void—and mused over the fucked up situation I was in. So I guess I was frustrated. I died, went to Hell… was that fucking _it_? No hearing with Satan to decide on the punishment for my sins, or even just to have a 'welcome to Hell!' then a fucking coffee and smoke? I began to stress myself out, wondering if Gregory and La resistance had managed to pull off that ridiculous plan. Honestly, the fact I died mid-way was shit. I really wanted to see the results—the fucking _results _of my genius planning. Partially Gregory's—mostly _mine._  
>"Zat fat asshole. I'd steel be fighting and fucking sheet up if eet weren't for him!" I grumbled this and other such irritations at nothing, occasionally picking up rocks from around me then casting them into the river and watching them slowly melt. I was admittedly growing bored of Hell and was about to walk somewhere else, which would undoubtedly be as bleak and smoky as this spot, when I noticed a figure approaching the river through the charcoal-trees. Through the waves of rippling heat occupying the air it was difficult to make out who—or <em>what<em>—it was, but as it drew closer I realised it was… a _kid. _Yeah, a kid about my age, maybe younger, I'd say. He was wearing a very orange, very stuffy-looking parka with the hood drawn right up and the fur trim masking any obvious facial features. My curiosity was piqued—I hadn't seen any kids younger than myself down here so far. He was either an evil little shit or unbaptised… or both, like me. I lowered myself to the ground a little to remain hidden, I'm not sure why, but I felt it was in my interest to observe and not _be _observed, oui? The parka-kid shuffled over to the edge of the river about opposite me and swept some loose stones over the edge before sitting himself down. I could somehow tell this kid was familiar with these surroundings. He had a fairly relaxed posture—from what I could garner behind that large parka—and he fearlessly allowed his legs to dangle only a few feet above the bubbling magma in the river below. He pulled back his hood and I was frankly _shocked. _Firstly his _hair_—it was shaggy and absolutely, perfectly golden and shiny. He was spookily angelic, with an overwhelming air of innocence that seemed to burn through the dull smog of Hell. Secondly I noticed his sky-blue eyes roving around the scenery impatiently, as if in boredom or anticipation. Thinking back on it, he almost resembled Greg—nah, Gregory's a British asshole. But they _do _both wear orange. Anyway thirdly, and this is what gave me away, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it on a smouldering piece of brimstone. I felt my senses prick up and raised my head only slightly to enviously observe the parka-kid smoking languidly, which was apparently just enough movement for those alert, blue eyes to lock on to mine.  
>'Shit,' I thought to myself 'oh well, I may as well stop hiding from this douchebag.'<br>I sat back in my original position and nodded curtly to the orange-clad stranger. My longing for that beautiful nicotine stick must have been obvious as the kid smirked at me and emphasised each exhalation he made. The chew-marks around my thumb nail were starting to look bad. I finally gave up my pride and pointed to myself while motioning a drag from a cigarette. He smirked again and nodded, then clearly mouthed "jump"… seriously. At this command I pointed dumbly from here to there while mouthing "zat far?" to which the parka-kid only shrugged, still wearing that cocky smile. I'm not sure if it was the burning need for a smoke or the blond kid's surprising aura of innocence and trustworthiness, but I found myself backing up from the edge until there was ample distance for a run-up. Then I ran as fast as I fucking could towards the edge, where molten lava awaited me should I fall. And I fucking jumped, made it halfway, then landed just short of the other side—right in the magma like a fucking dickweed.

When I came to I was spluttering and coughing, and stank of burnt.  
>"What ze 'ell?" I choked, then realised I was on unfamiliar rock. The parka-kid was by my side, looking slightly worse-for-wear himself, with singed patches on his clothes. He seemed awfully amused.<br>"Dude," his voice was coarse but gentle, "you must've been _seriously _desperate for a smoke." He handed me a cigarette, which I immediately sat up and accepted readily.  
>"Zhank you." I leaned forward and lit my cigarette on the end of his. Our eyes met in our close proximity and a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. His eyes really were kinda mesmerising. He was definitely the most colourful thing I'd seen since arriving in Hell. I leaned back and took one deep, heavenly drag. Absolute bliss. "And yes, I was desperate. I zhought now zat I was een 'ell I could do zis sheet. At least I deedn't die again, oui?"<br>"Yeah, but your face was priceless when you realised you weren't gonna make it. Well worth a cigarette." The kid laughed out loud then, a real wholesome laugh, and I found myself laughing dryly with him. Yeah, I was right. He was an evil little shit. We sat in silence for a while and enjoyed the nicotine.  
>"Comment tu t'appelles?" I asked, stubbing out my cigarette on a nearby rock.<br>"Don't speak French, fag." The kid replied, flicking his butt into the river. I rolled my eyes.  
>"Your <em>name<em>, dumbass Amereecan."  
>"Right. Kenny McCormick. And you're 'ze Mole'" he said, putting on an over-the-top French accent.<br>"Oui. What, wha-?"  
>"Don't get a monkey up your ass Christophe," Kenny cut in, making a dismissive hand-gesture, "I've just been keeping an eye on how things are going up there, that's all."<br>I was actually quite speechless.  
>"Wait. So you must origeenally be from Souz Park?" I asked quizzically. He nodded in confirmation.<br>"Actually, it's partly because I died that all the Moms want Terrance and Phillip dead…" he mused casually, and my eyes widened in disbelief. "But still, the bastards never seemed to notice the other God knows how many times I died! Dipshits."  
>This kid was unreal. And when I thought about it, I could recall one of the kids at La Resistance talking about a 'Kenny'. This must be that Kenny. How absolutely <em>convenient.<em> I guess it explained why he looked so comfortable in Hell… sounded as if he had some weird curse.  
>"So Christophe, how about I introduce you to Satan? I'm pretty pally with the guy right now." I could do nothing but stare at him sceptically.<br>"Are you actually serious…"  
>"Don't worry Mole; he's not actually as scary as you'd think. He's actually… having <em>boy issues <em>lately so I've become his agony aunt." Kenny cringed slightly. "I keep telling him, have some self-respect and drop that loser like a hot potato!" He snapped his fingers from side to side as he said this. We'd started to wander in the direction of the charcoal-trees. I was, of course, baffled.  
>"So Satan ees a queer?" I questioned.<br>"A massive one. And don't let him know I said this—but he's a bit of a bitch, too."  
>I smirked at the thought. Meeting Satan didn't sound <em>that <em>scary anymore. Kenny led me across land which didn't seem to change no matter how far or long we walked. He even gave me another cigarette when we stopped for a break, which I accepted gratefully. Kenny was the kind of kid I could get used to—a bit of a douche, but a funny douche, foul-mouthed, and not reluctant to share cigarettes. Perfect.

After walking for what seemed like fucking days I could finally see something different on the horizon. A huge, dark stone tower surrounded by smaller buildings. Of course Satan would live in a big stony fucking tower. With spikes. And shit.  
>"Home sweet home, I guess!" Kenny said and clapped his hands together once.<br>"Oui, eet ees just _charmeeng_." I rolled my eyes. It was actually cold now- even though we were in Hell the area we were in became less firey and more grey and desolate. Kenny grabbed my hand and pulled me close to him, with his arm wrapped around me. I realised he was a little bit taller than me. Only a few centimetres, mind.  
>"Don't wanna catch a cold, d'you little Mole?" he whispered close to my cheek and I felt myself flush slightly. I shimmied away but still held on to his hand for warmth.<br>"Back off, queer. Just because 'ell ees full of 'omos doesn't mean I'm one of zem." Really, I just wasn't used to 'cuddles'. It was gross. Kenny just smiled mock-sweetly at me, drew his hood up and led me towards the _painfully_ typical ominous bad-guy structure.

I was admittedly quite interested in meeting the Lord of the Underworld no matter how much of a gay bitch he was, but I don't think I could've guessed meeting his _son _would be far more interesting.

_Ooh, ooh. So here's a new fic. I dunno if I'll ever finish the other two, gonna have a read through them both and see if I become inspired to write more on them… But this South Park addiction I've got honestly has to be channelled somehow. And in case you're wondering who the fuck Christophe will fuck; he will be fucking everyone the fucking story will allow him to fuck! Maybe i just haven't decided yet. Fuck!  
>Let meh know what you think then! And please help me think of a decent title for this! Ja ne.<em>


	2. Oh my God, you killed who?

Chapter 2- Oh my God, you killed... Wait, what?

"Hey, Mole," Kenny's voice cut through the silence that had lingered as we travelled the final stretch toward Satan's abode.

"Oui?"

"I was just wondering, how _did _you actually die?"

I grimaced and tightened my grip on his scrawny, bruised hand.

"C'mon, you can tell me, seriously," he assured, shaking his head. "Some of the ways I've died have been pretty fucking stupid. I've been devoured by an evil goldfish before, for Christ's sake. And I got here this time by setting my fart—and myself—on fire, then having my heart replaced by a baked potato. Yours can't be as embarrassing as that."

I couldn't help laughing quietly into my hand and the blond kid grinned.

"Yes, zat makes mine seem less 'lame', as you might say," I replied, rubbing my eye. This kid had elicited more laughter from me in death than most had in my lifetime. How Morbid. "Well, I was mauled by fuckeeng guard dogs, you see?"

Kenny's smile dropped slightly, as if in thought.

"Wow, I don't think I've actually had that one yet… after being mauled a few times you sometimes forget what did it…" he stroked his pointed chin. "So how did that happen, then? I lost track of what's been going on up there since La Resistance mobilised. Satan feels the need to put me on the rack when he gets really pissed off…"

"'E sounds like a gentleman."

I rolled my eyes. Perhaps I was following this kid to the actual torture part of Hell too willingly? Regardless, we walked on and I described the plan to tunnel into the USO show and release Terrance and Phillip. When I got to the part where Cartman failed to turn off the alarms, ultimately causing my demise, Kenny froze, causing me to jerk back.

"Err, 'ello? What ees ze 'oldup?" His eyes were wide and watery and his free hand covered his mouth partially.

"Oh God, Christophe. I killed you!"

"Non, eet was ze fat one, Ken," I sighed, shaking my head, "you were down 'ere, remember?"

"Yeah I was, but Chris… when I was being tortured I knew shit was going down up there. Time is weird here, so it's hard to tell… Anyway I managed to force a bit of my soul back to Earth, and I managed to reach fat-ass for the second time."

His voice wavered and I glared at him, urging him to go on. "And he was standing by a huge switch. I was warning him of… something. I must've scared the shit outta him and…"

My third cigarette since my arrival in Hell hung loosely between my lips.  
>"So you… ze fat kid…"<p>

Kenny nodded and massaged his temples with his fingertips. For a few moments I puffed furiously on my cigarette, mine burning down twice as fast as his, which he flicked with the tip of his thumb awkwardly. This sort of irony was just too fucking much to handle. I die, go to Hell, find a really awesome kid who I could pass the time with… and it's that very kid who is the reason I'm here.

"I'm so sorry, Christophe… really. If I'd known-"

"Non, you weren't to know. I'm sure eet was important." I squeezed his shoulder reassuringly but my expression remained grim. After all if he had to force his spirit up to Earth to relay a message it had to be something important. "What was ze important news then, zat it was worth my life?" Kenny frowned.

"Dude, I can't tell you." His face held a finality that I couldn't ignore. "Honestly, I can't. Nobody can know. Not here."

"Fine zhen…" Fuck it, then. I don't want to know. I stubbed out my cigarette on his parka sleeve, "I'll be takeeng my leave."

Without any further response from Kenny I marched off, trying to keep my cool.

_Some audacity, _I thought, _telling me it's his fault I'm dead, then not even giving me the fucking reason why._

I decided I wasn't in the mood to see Satan. I'd probably end up pissing him off and getting myself a first class ride on the rollercoaster of eternal pain and torture. Without looking back to see where Kenny had decided to go from there, I walked in a direction slightly aside from the looming tower that was Lucifer's home and toward a large, gnarled oak tree. Well, it had the shape of an oak tree but with blackened bark. Arriving at the scene I realised it was pretty much Satan's back yard. The tree overshadowed a quite charming lake of magma with a mouldy swing hanging limply from one of the branches, and there were brambly plants awkwardly shoved in the less-impenetrable earth—in neat and shapely rows, mind you. On closer inspection of the tree's trunk I noticed it was coated with brittle clumps of charcoal which I scraped off with my trusty shovel, revealing glittering, smooth, black opal-like stone. The prettiness of it was unexpected in such an ash-riddled land and I smiled—only slightly, of course. I moved my head side to side before it for the dim light to reflect the sparkling stone back at me

.  
><em>I must look a right fucking fruit, swaying like a fucking sunflower.<em>

__Fuck it. It was the first nice-looking thing I'd seen since getting Heaven-banned, so I wanted to see it effing sparkle. I was pretty content there, just standing and staring. All alone. Calm solitude is not something I had much of when I was alive… I was either working, at school or grounded. But mostly grounded. Slowly I began to feel less pissed, and attempted to unravel the unaccustomed feelings swirling around inside me—I rarely felt anything more than pissed off, tired or just… meh. After giving myself a few more minutes to rationalise myself I decided that Kenny might've had a damn good reason for not telling me what was going on. And really, he had no obligation to. All I'd done for him is snagged some cigarettes then fucked off…

Shit. The fact I had died was sinking rapidly as a brick in a river by that point. My life was over, there was nothing to achieve or accomplish; my time on Earth was cut way too short. Down here I couldn't even grow up, I couldn't feel pain, and the closest thing I'd get to seeing natural beauty was here in front of me, smothered by burnt stone and glittering hopelessly amid the barren wasteland. And yes, I was all alone, but now I was not relaxed by it. I chewed my thumbnail.

_Maybe I should find Kenny._

But as I finally tore my eyes from the glittery patch I nearly shat as I saw a seriously dark and malignant-looking character swaying on the swing, with really pale skin, really black hair and really black clothes. He was staring me, and appeared to have been for some time, and his eyes were red—dark red irises with a glowing crimson centre; the lids around them were also, curiously, red-raw as if he'd been clawing the fuck outta them. I was in no way used to being caught off guard. I'm a top mercenary for God's sake. I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fucking fox. And here I was, gawping blankly at some Grudge-esque creep whose red eyes were pools of blood in his alabaster skin, and who had clearly been watching me and I had not noticed. So obviously, I was like… "Ze fuck?"

"I tend to keep that covered up, just so you know…" he pointed at the patch of shimmering stone and I dumbly stared at it, only emitting a dazed "uhhh…"

"I like to keep it hidden from my Dad," he continued, "He doesn't really like 'pretty' things."

_Makes sense… Wait—what?_

__"You're here for him, aren't you?" He looked dejected as he said this. I suddenly found my idiot voice:

"You're Satan's son?" I blurted. The boy sighed and said nothing. He hopped off the swing and examined the unearthed patch I had created.

"Follow me," he said, pulling me by the wrist with a surprisingly firm hand. I wasn't myself at all. Usually I'd never let anyone even touch me—never mind trying to fucking _make_ me go somewhere. Yet I complied, and he took me round the other side of the thick trunk, which was partly fused with a small hill of sorts. Then he removed a large, flat section of slate—which was pretty much the same colour as the rest of the rock—to reveal a sort of tunnel. The creepy kid gestured for me to enter and I narrowed my eyes sceptically while peering into the entrance before he nudged me in.

It was pitch black in there, and the path descended for a minute or so until we reached a small cavern furnished with crates and an old, rickety table. I noticed some shimmering patches of the same mineral protruding from the walls. The devil-kid pushed me down to sit on one of the crates and sat himself down in a moth-eaten armchair. He sat with his elbows resting on the sagging arms and his fingers interlocked.

"What are you doing here?" He said with narrowed eyes.

"Well, I died today. Or yesterday. I do not know wheech. Zhen I found a friend of a friend who decided eet would be good to see ze great Lucifer." The boy raised an eyebrow and cocked his head as if to say "go on…" so I continued.

"Eet was a kid called Kenny, who 'as apparently visited 'Ell several times." I continued, chewing my thumbnail. Nicotine.

"McCormick!" The kid sat up and gripped the feeble arms of the chair. "That fucker's up to something…"

"Oui. I agree. And what 'e is up to is killeeng those tryeeng to prevent World War fuckin'…" I snapped my fingers impatiently. "Trois!" The kid suddenly froze.

"Ah, of fucking course! It's something to do with all that shit happening up there…"

"Oui, and I'm just the seemple mercenary who got fucked in the ass by eet all. Fuckeeng Kenny is the reason I'm 'ere." The kid raised his eyebrow and chuckled.

"You sure that's not 'cause you're a weird, French asshole?"

"Oi!" I stood up and kicked the crate from behind me, smashing it into the wall. "At least my Dad ees not a fucking pussy 'omo."

At that, flames—actual flames—burned within the kid's eyes and reminded me this was the son of fucking Satan I had just shouted my mouth off to. Seconds later my legs crumpled beneath me and I was in agony—as if someone was gradually lowering me into a vat of acid.

_Shit. This kid's the real deal. I'm actually afraid. Of another kid._

"Sheet! Fu—shit! Fuck!" I grabbed at my legs and my body slumped. The pain was very real despite nothing visibly being awry. Then there was nothing, and I let my head fall back for a moment, panting heavily from the shock to my system. Soon the Satan-kid's skinny, strong hands pulled me to my feet. I allowed my eyes to slide back open to reveal his somewhat distressed expression.

"Shit, sorry kid…" he mumbled. His head hung in shame, but a glowing red aura was still visible through the black strands. "I get really mad at certain shit and, well…that happens."

I failed to respond and sagged in his arms; the pain in my legs had dissipated but left them weak and shaken. Once again all I managed to respond was a drawn-out "ze fuck?"

The Antichrist sat me down on the mildewed armchair.

"I'm Damien" he said in an inappropriately shy voice.

"You just nearly keeled me, muzzerfucker…" I sighed. "I'm Chreestophe. You can call me ze-"

"Oh, I know about you, Mole. As soon as you mentioned being a mercenary and World War 'Trois' bullshit I knew. And I've heard plenty from your victims down here."

I quirked an eyebrow at him and was inwardly pleased (that's the mark of a top fucking mercenary when the son of Satan himself has heard of you). I was then outwardly pleased as Damien produced cigarettes and placed one between my lips.

"And remember, you're already dead." He lit the glorious stick then—but of course, not with a lighter. He merely snapped his fingers, sparking a small ember on the tip of his thumb, which he held before me as I leaned closer to get the precious tobacco evenly lit. I took a long, satisfying drag and exhaled.

_And it can't even fucking kill me now. Triumph._

__"I'm guessing I'm forgiven, then?" I waggled my hand jauntily as if to say 'sorta' while smiling at him crookedly. He seemed happy for a brief second then his features collapsed into gloom and despair once more, like when I'd first found him.

_Jesus, this kid is volatile._

"I really didn't mean to hurt you, kid. I've gotten seriously pissed off since that fucker barged into our lives…"

"Your papa's butt-buddy?" Damien scowled at this and nodded.

"He treats Dad like shit, but he's being too much of a loved-up fag to stand up for himself. I mean, how the _fuck _can Satan not stick up for himself. He stood up to God, but when it's Saddam Hussein, fuck no!"

I almost let my cigarette drop in shock—but not quite. I held it between my fingers, tapped the ash off and pointed at him.

"First of all, God is a beetch. Second, what ze fuck? Saddam 'ussein?"

Damien nodded grimly. "Dad's turned into a pussy, and now it's like I'm not even here."

So, even Devil-children still need their parents. That struck a chord in the part of my heart with abandonment issues.

_At the same time, fuck you mother_.

We stared blankly for a few moments in smoky contemplation before I raised myself and put my hand on his shoulder.

"Well, ze way I see it, I'll be in 'ell for, uh… a while, so…" Damien's eyes widened.

"You're _seriously _saying 'let's be pals' with someone like me?" Damien laughed, but I could see a golden flash of hope in those fucked-up red eyes.

"Oui." I answered plainly before attempting to sink back down in the mouldy chair—which was undeniably, pretty comfortable. However, without warning Damien's strong, small hands were clasped about the sides of my head. He fixed his crimson eyes on mine, a stare which penetrated my mind and soul.

I knew something had happened. I could feel it, yet at the same time it was only a minimal feeling. When Damien let me go I plopped back into the chair and I noticed his triumphant but warm expression. I raised an eyebrow and shrugged one shoulder at him.

"What was zat?"

"I've gave you a gift… part of my powers, if you will." I had to scratch my head a few times while I processed the information.

"So what can I do, and why?"

"Let's just say, if you don't want to be seen—you won't be," he drawled vaguely, "and you're the first person down here to actually be kind. So I've decided to trust you with this."

"Fair Eenough, err. Merci."

Damien laughed as I spoke, confusing me further.

"Of course, it's not just for shits and gigs. Silly frog." I frowned at this. "Since you also happen to be a pretty good mercenary, I'm actually going to trust you with something more. I want you to find out, for me, what McCormick knows about the war."

I merely sighed in reply.

_Always a catch—and had I asked for it? Non. Nevertheless, work's work. Even in Hell._

I held out my hand expectantly—and impatiently—for the cigarette box.

* * *

><p>Rhi: Yeah so. I've literally been writing this chapter up for months on end. Loving it, hating it, desperately wanting this "exposition" part of the story to end so I can get on with the main plot... I think there's just one more chapter with his child experiences after this. Hopefully I'll feel like writing it soon... Because I do like some of the ideas I've had for the "adult" part.<p> 


End file.
